New Zealand Verse/Ocean's Own
L.
Ocean’s Own.
The song that the surf is brawling
Is meant for their ears alone,
Who followed the deep-sea calling
And slaved at it, blood and bone.
Oh! softly the North Wind sings them
A measure that bids them rest
Where Ocean, their mother, swings them
To sleep on her throbbing breast.
The moon lifts gold in the gloaming,
The sun in the west sinks red,
And birds of the sea pass roaming,
But the Ocean’s Own lie dead.
Is meant for their ears alone,
Who followed the deep-sea calling
And slaved at it, blood and bone.
Oh! softly the North Wind sings them
A measure that bids them rest
Where Ocean, their mother, swings them
To sleep on her throbbing breast.
The moon lifts gold in the gloaming,
The sun in the west sinks red,
And birds of the sea pass roaming,
But the Ocean’s Own lie dead.
Perchance as they lie they’re dreaming
Of home and a childhood’s tune
That rang through the storm-seas’ screaming
And sobbed in the warm monsoon;
Or maybe again they’re thrashing
With spray on the high bridge-rail,
And labouring engines clashing
A dirge to the men who fail.
The world passes on, forgetting,
But, off in the ports, I know
There’s many a brave heart fretting
For the good, brave hearts laid low.
Of home and a childhood’s tune
That rang through the storm-seas’ screaming
And sobbed in the warm monsoon;
Or maybe again they’re thrashing
With spray on the high bridge-rail,
And labouring engines clashing
A dirge to the men who fail.
The world passes on, forgetting,
But, off in the ports, I know
There’s many a brave heart fretting
For the good, brave hearts laid low.
Their ships swept out on the noon-tides,
And lonely their mast-head lights
Were quivering far, when the moon-tides
Swam glittering through the nights;
And strong where the storm-stars flicker
They drove through the wash and roll,
And ever their screws spun quicker
When baulked of their distant goal.
For the Ocean’s Own were roamers —
By power of sail and steam
They swung on the long Cape combers,
Or droned up the Hoogli’s stream.
And lonely their mast-head lights
Were quivering far, when the moon-tides
Swam glittering through the nights;
And strong where the storm-stars flicker
They drove through the wash and roll,
And ever their screws spun quicker
When baulked of their distant goal.
For the Ocean’s Own were roamers —
By power of sail and steam
They swung on the long Cape combers,
Or droned up the Hoogli’s stream.
The song that the surf is shouting
Is meant for their ears alone
Who went to their work undoubting,
And slaved at it, blood and bone.
Oh! softly the Ocean swings them
To sleep on her heaving breast,
And the wind from the sweet North sings them
The songs that their hearts loved best.
Soft eyes are sad in their waking—
Eyes bright with the tears unshed—
And there’s many a brave heart breaking;
But the Ocean’s Own lie dead.
Is meant for their ears alone
Who went to their work undoubting,
And slaved at it, blood and bone.
Oh! softly the Ocean swings them
To sleep on her heaving breast,
And the wind from the sweet North sings them
The songs that their hearts loved best.
Soft eyes are sad in their waking—
Eyes bright with the tears unshed—
And there’s many a brave heart breaking;
But the Ocean’s Own lie dead.